


Salvation

by swampslip



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Blasphemy, Come Marking, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Nipple Play, Teasing, perceived homophobia?? idk dude it's a misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29317848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampslip/pseuds/swampslip
Summary: He breathes in deeply and lets it out through his teeth as Arthur smooths the salve over the bruise, starting at John’s collarbone and working down.Tender and gentle and John has to close his eyes so he doesn't accidentally meet Arthur's.This shouldn't get him off, ithurtsfor one-For two, Arthur doesn't mean it like that.The older man's just being generous with that big heart o' his and John's lucky enough to be the recipient.Arthur's fingers unceremoniously drag the salve over his nipple, across his ribs from his sternum out.John clenches his hands in the bedroll, trying not to catch fire with how hot he's burning.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> john gets worked up over something innocent then thinks arthur's bullying him when arthur's actually just gay and incapable of expressing his wants in a timely manner

John says a prayer out of habit, more than anything, before he goes to bed. 

Most nights he just bows his head and shut his eyes tight and thinks real hard about greater things. 

He says his apologies, for sinning, again, though he holds no realistic hopes of changing anytime soon. 

He asks for protection, for Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, everyone, himself last, for luck in jobs, for food in his belly. 

Sometimes he's angry and he slips bitter accusations between the begging, sometimes he's scared, when someone's down with a fever, when he doesn't feel like himself. 

This time he's scared, a little angry, a little shaken up and he drops to his knees at the side of his bedroll and he links his fingers and bows his head and he hears Arthur go still in the tent they're sharing.

It still feels like there’s blood on his face, on his hands but maybe it's just that his skin is warm and rubbed raw from trying to get as clean as possible as quickly as possible as they packed up camp and rode hard away from the mess they left in that little town, with a littler population than when they rode in.

And he prays about a lot of things, mostly he asks questions, thinks loudly confessions of his bullets in the other sons of God and he hears Arthur shift, after a moment. 

"You prayin'?" Arthur asks quietly. 

"Shh." 

"... Really?" 

And John looks up, tired and frustrated and Arthur must see something in his reddened eyes cause the older man blinks at him and sits back, submitting, visibly. 

Giving up. 

John watches him warily for a moment then tidies up his prayer with a murmured ‘amen’ and sits heavy on his heels.

"Didn't think you were the type," Arthur says slowly.

John scratches at his face and it makes the burning hot feeling worse and he wonders, briefly, if this is what the beginnings of Hell feels like, an itching heat seeping into you, unsettling you. 

"Hosea," John says quietly and gets a quiet, understanding hum in response, "He said I could, when I... Instead of gettin' mean."

"Mean?" 

"Angry." 

"Scared?" 

"... A bit." 

Arthur hums again and shoves himself up off the makeshift stool, moving around, getting ready for sleep. 

"You hurt?" Arthur asks quietly as John watches the older man's back flex and shift, shirt discarded, "Didn't get the chance to ask earlier, everythin' was... Well, you were there." 

"A bit," Is all John can manage cause he _hurts_. 

Not like fresh wounds of torn skin and nerves burning against the open air, but like he's been tumbled under a stampede and he somehow he’s still walking.

"Where?" 

"Ribs, stomach." 

Arthur turns and raises a brow at him and it's a familiar question, 'do you want help?' but he's learned not to ask it aloud, learned that John has a wicked pride even when he's suffering and John feels safer submitting to silent offers. 

So John nods, and Arthur moves and digs through his bag and there's a new rip in the flap that holds it closed. 

"Off with it," Arthur murmurs and gestures at John widely. 

John unclasps his hands and tugs at his suspenders, pulls his shirts off over his head without unbuttoning them further. 

It makes him hiss, quietly, involuntarily, before he bites his lip and tosses the shirts away and _Hell_ , there’s a new rip in that too. 

Now he really feels like he's burning. 

Arthur whistles lowly and he kneels in front of John, on the other side of the younger man's bedroll. 

"Lay down," Arthur says, it's gentler than normal, John looks down at himself and understands why. 

He's purple from his belly button to his collarbone. 

John grimaces and lays down and Arthur brings the little jar of Hosea's salve around and sets it next to John, picks up the younger man's arms and moves them out, carefully pushes where John gives and that's not many spaces at all, the lines of his ribs even clearer, marred in purple and red burst blood vessels and John makes a small, muffled noise of pain. 

"Don't feel broken," Arthur whispers and his fingers come back cold with that gel and it's a balm to the Hell burning in John. 

He breathes in deeply and lets it out through his teeth as Arthur smooths the salve over the bruise, starting at John’s collarbone and working down. 

Tender and gentle and John has to close his eyes so he doesn't accidentally meet Arthur's. 

This shouldn't get him off, it _hurts_ for one-

For two, Arthur doesn't mean it like that. 

The older man's just being generous with that big heart o' his and John's lucky enough to be the recipient. 

Arthur's fingers unceremoniously drag the salve over his nipple, across his ribs from his sternum out. 

John clenches his hands in the bedroll, trying not to catch fire with how hot he's burning. 

Arthur works down towards John’s belly button.

John can’t help but tense, abdomen going taught under Arthur’s touch and the older man pauses. 

“Alright?” 

“... Ticklish,” John mutters reluctantly and Arthur laughs softly. 

“Oh?” Arthur murmurs and lightens his touch, dragging his fingertips around John’s bellybutton and John inhales sharply at the pang of heat in his gut. 

Arthur pauses again and stares at John’s stomach before looking up and seeing the flush on John’s face. 

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” John whispers. 

“... Hm.”

“I’m sorry,” John says again, closing his eyes tightly, “I’m not tryin’ to be strange or anythin’.”

Arthur doesn’t respond for a moment and John’s not sure what he’s expecting, yelling, anger, disgust, to be dragged out and handed off to Dutch for some kind of punishment, for Arthur to demand his own tent not wanting to share with someone like John-

Arthur’s fingers slowly return to their firm pressure then start to move back up John’s stomach. 

Brushing over the tender bruises cloaking each rib and then up, further, hesitating around the edges of John’s nipple. 

“You toyin’ with me?” John asks hoarsely then grits his teeth, trying not to make any incriminating noise or move as Arthur’s fingertips circle his nipple, just a ghost of a touch. 

“Maybe,” Arthur whispers. 

John’s fingers tremble then flex open to grab at more of the bedroll under him, breathing out shakily. 

The last air out of his lungs forming a small whine as the pad of Arthur’s finger brushes back and forth over the small bump of his nipple as it hardens. 

“Arthur,” John says weakly. 

“Just toyin’ with you, right?” Arthur mumbles and pinches John’s nipple carefully, rolling it between his fingers and John can’t stay still anymore, turning his face away as he makes a needy sound and arches his back, pressing his chest up into the touch, “Really like this, huh, Johnny?”

“Please,” John whispers. 

“Please what?”

“... Are you just fuckin’ with me?” John asks as his eyes start to water in humiliation, his voice getting thicker, “Gon’ go n’ let everyone know how much of a queer John is?”

Arthur’s quiet for a long moment and John’s chest hitches with a small sound of hurt. 

“Are you?” Arthur whispers, “Queer?”

“Don’t…” John whispers then whimpers quietly when Arthur pinches his nipple again, “Do you care?”

“Yeah.”

“I- I’ll get another tent, yeah?” John asks shakily, “Why're you bein’ mean?”

“Am I?” Arthur mumbles, “You don’t need another tent.”

“What?”

“I…” Arthur’s fingers still and his hand moves to John’s sternum, “I’m just messin’ with you… I’m not mad or nothin’.”

John breathes out shakily and turns to look up at Arthur and his eyes are watery and Arthur’s expression softens, his hand moving up to John’s cheek and squeezing lightly. 

“No, no, hey,” Arthur murmurs and shifts, leaning over John more, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t… I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

“Why did you-?” 

“I… I am too, I thought you knew that,” Arthur says weakly, “I wasn’t tryna scare you or nothin’.”

John makes a soft sound of confusion and Arthur moves again, shifting to sit higher on his knees next to John. 

“I just thought it was sweet,” Arthur whispers, “How worked up you got.”

“You _were_ messin’ with me,” John accuses quietly. 

“Not like… Not tryna hurt you, John, wanna see you feel good.”

John just breathes quietly for a few seconds then settles his shaky hand over Arthur’s and moves the older man’s touch to his other nipple. 

“Please,” John whispers.

“You sure?” Arthur asks but starts to shift, “You ain’t mad at me?”

“Want you,” John admits quietly. 

“Yeah?” Arthur whispers and slides his leg over John’s hips, straddling the younger man, “Sorry, should’ve said I wasn’t gonna… I wasn’t tryna be _mean_.”

“S’fine,” John whispers and wipes at his eyes then looks up at Arthur, lips parting as both of the older man’s hands are on his chest, toying with his nipples, “ _Nn-”’_

“Want you too, Johnny,” Arthur says under his breath, squeezing the thin flesh of John’s chest then brushing his thumbs outward, John’s back arching again, cheeks flushing darker, “Jesus, look at you.”

“Feels good,” John mumbles, a bit shy, and slowly settles his hands on Arthur’s hips. 

"Yeah?" Arthur whispers and continues playing with John's chest, shifting on the younger man's hips. 

Squirming, just a bit, his drawers bulging with his hardened cock. 

John moves his hand and palms the bulge, looking up at Arthur nervously. 

The older man grunts softly and rocks his hips into the touch. 

"John," Arthur whispers. 

And there’s that Hell again, creeping around his veins, warming him to the tips of his toes as he watches Arthur’s expression crumple in need. 

Squeezes the cock under his fingers, swallows any shame he feels when Arthur’s lips part and the older man grabs his shoulders, rocking his hips into the touch above John. 

John watches the line and curves of Arthur’s body shift and flex as the older man starts to lightly rut into the touch. 

And all John wants to do is let Arthur use him like this, his own cock twitching and filling, aching with every soft, pleading sound escaping Arthur’s mouth. 

"Shit," Arthur whispers, "Johnny."

“Can I-” John’s voice cracks with his nervousness and he gently squeezes around the shape of Arthur’s cock, “Can I see?”

Arthur’s fingertips dig into his shoulders then the older man nods, inhaling shakily when John tugs the laces loose and pulls his cock out into the space between them. 

John makes a small, hesitant sound of want and smooths the palm of his hand up Arthur’s length to cup the head, looking up at Arthur for direction like he always does. 

Seeking the sweet, cool relief of someone else calling the shots when his mind is overwhelmed with heat. 

Anger. Fear. Lust, all hot and hard to think around. 

“Just-” Arthur swallows roughly, turning his face into his shoulder to hide from John’s look of reverence, “Like it’s your own.”

“Yeah?” John whispers, not looking away from Arthur’s pinking cheeks, the freckles and scars in even sharper relief against flushed skin, “You know ‘bout that?”

“I- Everyone does it, John,” Arthur mutters then makes a low sound, caught in his throat when John strokes down his length, pauses, squeezes the base, “Shit.”

“Good?”

“You want me to sing your praises or somethin’?” Arthur asks roughly, bitter with embarrassment and not as sharp as it could be. 

“... Yeah,” John admits quietly. 

Arthur makes a choked sound of surprise and his cock jerks in John’s grip, the older man cursing and shifting above him, pressing down harder on John’s shoulders to keep himself upright. 

“Praisin’ me… Pleadin’ with me,” John says breathily, “Some kinda false religion.”

“Shit, John,” Arthur gasps as John’s other hand joins in, cupping his balls and playing with them as John slicks his pre-come down his length, “What’re you even- _Nhn-”_

John grips him firmly and starts pulling up the length of his cock, keeping that tight vice around him, palming his balls and looking up at Arthur like he’s something holy. 

Arthur feels himself flustering more, face burning brightly as his gut twists with warmth and he starts to come, choking out a warning, but John just milks him through it. 

Steady and tight, as Arthur’s cock twitches and his balls draw up, come streaking from his cock, pulsing down across the shiny, salve-rubbed skin over John’s bruised chest and belly. 

Arthur just stares, breathing heavy as John lets himself be marked up. 

John squeezes out the last couple drops, pressing his lips together when they drip just below his bellybutton. 

“God, John,” Arthur pants, “What the hell?”

“Don’t- I don’t-” John glances down at the mess of himself then back up at Arthur, “I don’t care.”

“What?”

“That it’s wrong… I don’t care,” John says thickly, “Want you.”

“It’s not… It’s not _wrong_ ,” Arthur whispers, “We’re fine, kid, nothin’s wrong ‘bout it.”

“You know that’s not- You know Swanson… Even Hosea used to-” John cuts himself off, looking off to the side then up at Arthur, “I don’t care ‘bout Heaven or Hell or any of that.”

“... Alright?” Arthur moves his hand to cup the side of John’s jaw, studying the younger man, trying to push past the cloudiness in his mind to understand what John’s going on about. 

John pushes on his hips until Arthur scoots back to sit on John’s thighs. 

Then John makes a shaky sound and messily shoves down his drawers, dragging his palm through Arthur’s come on his belly and gripping his cock, still looking up at Arthur who’s still staring right back down at him. 

John’s lips are flushed, slick with spit and bitten red from his worrying of them between his teeth. 

Arthur watching as John strokes himself with the older man’s seed, something filthy and so, so enticing about how fucked-out John looks. 

The younger man squirming under him, fucking his own hand, pre-come pooling into his bellybutton with Arthur’s come. 

“Don’t-” John gasps out then bites down on a whimper, gripping himself tightly, back arching up and his free hand seeking out Arthur’s. 

Arthur lets the younger man twine their fingers, softly squeezes John’s hand to acknowledge the touch. 

“Don’t need salvation,” John whispers hoarsely, almost whining as he holds himself steady, meeting Arthur’s eyes as his cock pulses come into the mess on his belly, “I got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> [horny twitter](https://www.twitter.com/swampslip)   
>  [tumblr](https://providentialeyes.tumblr.com)


End file.
